That sudden time I heard
the pulse of song in a thrush throat
my windy vision fluttered
like snow-clouds buffeting the moon.
I was born into an ambush
Of preachers, propagandists, grafters,
("Fear life and death!" "Hate and pay me!")
and tho I learned to despise them all
my dreams were of rubbish and destruction.
But that song, and the drop-notes
of a brook truckling thru log-breaks and cedars,
I came to on numb clumsy limbs
to find outside the beauty inside me.